Israel handed me a coffee, big as a soccer ball, on his pretty damn fine screened-in porch.
I told him I wanted to road trip down to old New Orleans.
“Let’s go man. YOLO, right?”
“I don’t know, man. The thing is, I have to work.”
“Well, if you want to stay, stay. We will be back tomorrow, though.”
“As long as we will be back tomorrow, I’ll go.”
Good friend that he is, he needed little convincing.
So, we took off on a five-hour drive.
In edge city Memphis, we saw a phallic statue, like the Washington monument. I think we should have gotten out to take immature photos in front of it, blasting imaginary crème filling.
“Watch for them gators,” I twanged.
“I reckon,” said Israel.
We crossed into Louisiana as it started getting pitch-blue dark, vast miles of evergreen trees, later water, all around, the road suspended above, a massive fire raging at an oil refinery on the horizon.
We talked the whole damn way there and back. I sounded like I had just read Nonviolent Communication. Constantly with the, “I feels” and the “I thinks.” I know. But I keep on with it. Israel said, “I guess…” then something he thought about what I was saying, as has been his habit for as long as I’ve known him.
On Royal St. in the French Quarter, Los Tigres Del Norte echoed out our rolled-down windows. I felt cool, like un gringo who’s cool with los latinos.\
We pulled up at our haunted hotel. I felt a wee bit para, because a gas-station-stranger had severely warned me of danger in the city.
We walked a mile to the Goat, past a fashionista sleeping on the sidewalk, to a Halloween-themed niteclub loved by punks everywhere.
At the bar, neither of us drank. We agreed not to.
Zondar performed, a lone guitarist schralping over PA blasting punk deep cuts with a phosphorescent vocalist. I saw the singer on the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“Zondar is from the planet Zondar.”
That stuck with me, having a stage persona that is most likely just an act.
Israel talked to a fit girl, the bass player in Fault. They grinned conspiratorially.
I felt weird. Was it the lack of alcohol or the memory that it might be a hard to relate while sober? Across the street, I ate pierogies and borscht and felt tons better.
I returned to watch Pyrex, of course.
Later, at the haunted hotel, we slept on our cloudy beds, road-weary. Phantasms boo-ed through the walls.
I felt like a warrior, out hunting fun times. The beet-y taste of borscht.
Easing the pain of knowing I would have to help drive back was the promise that it would be a delicious pain. Just like I knew it would, me and him held the conversation the whole way way back to the capital of the mid-south, Memphis.